


Hidden Voices

by Jarakrisafis



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarakrisafis/pseuds/Jarakrisafis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No mech will ever understand us, because we are the only mech like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hidden Voices

**Home sweet home.** He has sarcasm down to a fine art and he never wastes the chance to use it. **All this orange can't possibly be healthy.**

"I suppose so." I can feel his amusement rattle through my processor as I lean against the wall just outside Jazz's office. "Been a while since we've been here hasn't it?"

 **Sure has. I was starting to think that they've forgotten about us.** Mechs cast us curious glances as we pass, but not one of them questions our presence. If we had been back on the Nemesis we'd have been dragged before Soundwave as soon as we were spotted. Instead here we've walked all the way to the offices without a single mech getting suspicious.

And, not one of them seemed to recognise us, not a one. No greetings, no welcome home, nothing. Just the warm mocking orange walls. "Have we really been gone that long?"

 **No. Not that long. They should remember us.** He says as another mech passes us, not even a smile aimed my direction and I scowl.

"Punch? You ok there?" I start, armour flaring as my weapons systems power up.

"Sorry Sir." I say as I realise we never did get to the entering the office part of what we were meant to be doing. "Just a bit disorientated to be back here." And that isn't a lie, the lack of lilac paint, the rumble and clatter of brawling mechs, the faint sounds of the ocean pressing in on the hull. All of that is missing here.

"Come on in." He beckons me into his office and I enter with some amount of trepidation. I'm here to give him my report. That's all. Easy.

Except that was before. Before we ended up spending vorns in stasis. Before we woke up. Before there was a 'we'.

And I know, _we_ know, that Jazz will see him, me, us. He will know that I am no longer I.

No. We have hidden what we are from the Decepticons, even from Soundwave who has always presented the most danger to us. We can hide from Jazz. This is _our_ mind.

**And what will we do if he does find me?**

"I don't know."

Jazz frowns as he looks up from where he is dragging a second seat around his desk. "What's that Punch?"

"Oh, just talking to myself."

Jazz grins and shakes his head as he beckons me over to the chairs. "Do that too often and you'll end up being sent to Ratchet."

Perching on the edge of my seat I let my armour slide back from one of my dataports even as I unspool a cable to complete the connection.

The rush of data, the feeling of another presence, another mech in my processor isn't as jarring as it used to be.

 **You sure you're alright Punch?** Jazz's mental voice echoes around my processor as our link solidifies.

 **I'm fine.** I just hope he doesn't pick up how forced that sounded. I've had to lower my outer firewalls to transmit my mission data and the deeper firewalls in my processor are wavering under the strain of keeping them up and transmitting so much information.

 **Punch? What? Slag!** His tone is sharp and shocked before I feel his regret, swirling and bubbling across our link. The same flicker of a half formed thought follows, similar to the one that must have betrayed me catches my attention and I know that I cannot allow him to do what he is thinking.

I would never have been given this assignment if I wasn't good. I've kept Soundwave out of my processor for vorns, keeping Jazz at bay is easy. He's out of practice, and more relevant, he has never been a hacker. His expertise is at sabotage, chaos and mayhem, but unfortunately for him, those skills will be no help here.

For beyond the fact that I am the better hacker, I am not alone.

Together we rip through the firewalls he hastily throws up, his comm. for back-up cut before it can go out and his weapons systems disabled as he physically thrashes where we have moved to pin him to his seat.

He is venting hard as he stills, his lips curling up into a feral snarl, but he isn't going anywhere, not while he is still mentally trying to unwind the cyphers I have used to lock down his systems.

"Who are you?" He asks the question aloud and it echoes through my processor a heartbeat later.

 **Who do you think we are?** It is not I who answers and I can see that Jazz is slowly putting the pieces together.

"Counterpunch." He finally states and I smile as my other half laughs.

**Well aren't you clever.**

"You want to delete us?" I state, ignoring Counterpunch's sarcasm as I return to the topic that has brought us to this point. That one thought that Jazz let slip.

"Not you. Him." Jazz clarifies and from his mind I can pick out just how much Jazz does not understand that we are each one half of a whole. Two mechs with one life. And I can see through our connection that he doesn't want to know. He will never accept us.

 **Extinguish him and be done with it.** Counterpunch snarls as he reads the same thoughts. But I am not him and I am still loyal to the Autobot cause even as he is loyal to Megatron. A true double agent.

 **No.** There is only one way. Jazz must not know about us.

"What the slag?" Jazz jerks as I curl my fingers into a wheelwell, gently pressing against the plating till the sensors hum with the gentle pressure.

"Shhhhh. This'll be much easier if you don't fight me." My warning goes unheeded as he throws himself at my encryptions, fighting to regain control of his limbs and it hurts to have to clamp down on his processor as I tighten my physical grip, the pain slowly interrupting his concentration. At the back of my mind I can hear Counterpunch laughing, his excitement at the power we have seeping into my half of the whole that is us.

"Punch, you don't want to do this." No. I don't. What am I doing assaulting a senior officer?

 **If you stop, he will destroy us.** Counterpunch reminds me as I hesitate and I can sense for myself that it is true. Jazz will not let us walk away, he will try to destroy Counterpunch and in doing so he will take me with him.

"Stop fighting. I don't want to hurt you." It is a plea I doubt Jazz will listen to, it is not in his nature to submit, but at least I can say that I tried.

He laughs, a sharp bark that holds no mirth. "Of course you don't, but you're not Punch are you?"

And still he refuses to see _us_. "Trust me Jazz, if I wasn't me, you'd be asking Primus what just happened."

 **Aye, listen to Punch. I wouldn't take any chances. A deactivated mech tells no secrets.** The whisper from deep in my mind makes Jazz shudder in my grip, even as his mental touch recoils, attempting to rebuild his shattered firewalls. **You should be thanking Punch for being such a soft sparked Autobot, it is only because of him that I have not extinguished you.**

"So if you aren't going to kill me...?" The rest of his query remains unasked; what is to stop me from spilling your secret?

 **What you don't know, you can't tell.** Counterpunch replies, his mental hold on Jazz as tight as my physical one, as we feel the first faint hint of fear.

Oh yes, Jazz knows what a threat like that means.

I shake my helm, pushing back the anticipation and glee. This is not me. I am not enjoying this. Jazz whimpers and I loosen the grip I have on him, leaving dented metal in my wake, and deep in our mind Counterpunch laughs. He is enjoying this.

 **Of course I am, it isn't every cycle we have a mech beneath us and so very helpless.** He doesn't bother to hide his thoughts and Jazz flinches as the images and ideas brush against his conciousness and I almost give in. But we know each other too well. He is using my own desires against me, twisting them with his own lust for dominance, and I have to deny him.

This is not about pleasure. We have a job to do.

 **And pleasure makes business so much better.** I ignore the seductive whisper, concentrating instead on the frame beneath us, finding the sensor rich areas behind armour panels and along the seams where plating splits, and the areas between armour where wiring is laid bare and the electric charge beginning to build between us arcs from one component to the next with soft flares of light.

I am grateful that Counterpunch is holding his mind, for I do not think I could keep going if I could feel the full scale of the emotions he is transmitting. The amount that is getting past is enough to unsettle my fuel tanks, but Counterpunch is right. There is no other way.

The sound of his internal cooling fans starting up is loud in the office as the scrape of my fingers along his plating is the only other sound above the thrum of our engines and hydraulics.  
Every touch makes his frame press towards me and his limbs twitch as our coding keeps him in place, and oh I know it is involuntary, a response of a finely tuned chassis to external stimuli, but I can't help but feel Counterpunch's satisfaction as he transmits file after file at Jazz, images and sensor ghosts of pressure, temperature, movement, each one leaving a phantom impression in his processor, building the charge even as he flails against us, fighting against his bonds.

Overload, when it hits, makes him scream, although it is choked back, before his optics dim as his systems shut down to protect him from the excess charge. It is in that moment that we have our chance. When his mind is still connected to ours, but he is not present to notice any changes, not present to stop us that we make our move.

Shifting, rearranging, creating.

It takes but a fraction of a breem and we have pulled out, carefully disconnecting our datalink from his dataport by the time he reboots. It wouldn't do to still be connected and have him see things he shouldn't for a second time.

"Punch?"

"Sir?"

He frowns, his visor dim as he sorts through his memories. "Next time, we get to the berth, it's so much more comfy than my chair."

The triumphant **Yes!** in my processor at how the false memories seem to have been integrated correctly almost makes me laugh out loud before I am distracted by Jazz running a hand across my arm, static discharging with a flash to his fingers.

"I think we should do get rid of that charge and since all the official stuff is out of the way, care to try and make it to the berth this time?"

"I'd like that." I even manage to keep the smirk off my face, quite a feat, what with all the smug accomplishment that Counterpunch is sending my way.

 **You know, I'm almost sorry we added in that memory about us not liking data linking during interfacing. One vorn, when Megatron wins, I'd quite like to do that again.** I ignore him, for one, Megatron will never win, and secondly, I have something much more interesting to be concentrating on.


End file.
